When there's nothing, we still have each other
by Laila Space
Summary: Sherlock felt terrible. He wanted John. He got him. Now he'll be alright. After all, John made everything alright. Chapter 6 up. COMPLETE. Please read and review. It encourages me to update faster.
1. Chapter 1

Hi. This story came out of nowhere and it just pasted itself to my brain. So I just had to write it.

Features sick!Sherlock and caring!John. Not intended to be slash. Just friendship. Strong friendship. But for all those shippers out there, get out your telescopes or periscopes or ... whatever.

And, yeah. Sherlock's all mine. That's why I'm writing fanfiction. Sigh. You know the truth anyway. I'm just a Sherlockian like you. Whiling away time until season 5 by writing (and reading) fanfiction.

But I do own something. YOU. Muahahahaha. You are within my power.

No, actually, I'm in your power. So I'll update if you want me to {and if you review ; )}.

Now, ta da . . .

 _When there's nothing, we still have each other._

 _Hammer pounding staccato rhythms against his head._

 _Waves of pain that sent ripples of more pain at even a minute movement._

 _Hot, as if he was roasting in the sun._

 _Cold, as if he was drowning in the frigid waters of the Arctic ocean._

 _Opening his eyes only made the ceiling above him turn into an artist's palete, the colours mixing into a giant swirl of madness and bright and spinning and ..._

 _It hurt._

 _So he closed his eyes again._

 _The fever had raged in his body for almost half a day now. It had caught him unawares. He had woken up on the couch where he had dozed off (dozed off? Since when did he 'doze off'?) at around five in the morning, while pondering about the various uses of Hirudo medicinalis and if it could help him in his new experiment._

 _He knew he should call someone. Should call John. John would know what to do. John always knew what to do. But John must've gone off to the stupid surgery, simply shutting the door when there was no reply to his 'Bye Sherlock'. Of course he had thought that Sherlock was sleeping (as rare as that was). He must've chosen not to disturb him. Maybe if Sherlock had been awake, he would have told John to stay._

 _But for now he could take some paracetamol in an effort to reduce the fever or maybe take a cool bath. And he should drink something. John would want him to stay hydrated. And John would want him to rest. To cover himself with at least a thin blanket to ward off the shivers._

 _But it hurt. God, it was agony. It hurt to move, hurt to cough, hurt to turn his head, hell, it even hurt to breathe. He'd thought breathing was boring. Now he came to the conclusion that it was also painful._

 _Everything was painful. All he wanted was to sleep. Or maybe die. But John wouldn't like that. Nor would or Lestrade._

 _No, he couldn't die. So he tried to sleep._

 _But he couldn't. At least not fully._

 _He hung there, by that line that separated consciousness and unconsciousness. Neither asleep nor awake._

 _But it made the nightmares worse. He knew they weren't real. Knew he should wake up, but couldn't. That made it all the more worse. Knowing that there was no escape from the nightmares._

 _Where was John? John would help him. He always did. John always saved him. Stupid, reckless Sherlock. Always getting himself into messes. But John was always there to rescue him. To catch him when he fell._

 _So where was he? Had John left him? No, he wouldn't do that . . . would he?_

 _Could be dangerous._

 _Coming?_

 _Oh God, yes._

 _Dying. That's what people DO!_

 _Heartless. But we both know that's not quite true, Sherlock._

 _Moriarty. A bomb strapped to John. Laser beams pointed to John. John in danger._

 _John._

 _Afghanistan or Iraq. The Beginning._

 _Is that my laptop?_

 _There's a head in the fridge._

 _I don't have any friends. Yeah, I wonder why?_

 _I don't have any friends. I just have one._

 _He's with me. Yeah, but who is he? I said he's with me._

 _He's my friend. Friend? Colleague._

 _Colleague. Colleague. Colleague._

 _Was that all he was to John? What if one day he got tired of Sherlock and went on to find new friends. Or maybe went to live with Mike Stamford. Or Lestrade. What would Sherlock, the heartless, cold, rude detective, whom nobody wanted, who was a freak, do then? Because he could never live without John. John was the only one who could put up with him. John made it bearable. No, John made it better. John made him happy. Nobody else wanted him._

 _Freak._

 _You're a psychopath._

 _Not good? Bit not good, yeah._

 _Sherlock! Timing._

 _You always say such horrible things. Always._

 _I am sorry._

 _Sorry. Sorry. How many times had he even apologized to anyone in his whole life? Once, twice? John had taught him the little things. Saying sorry and thankyou. Had turned down his rudeness a notch. Taught him that it was okay to show emotions. Feelings. Sentiment. (Not that he showed it much just because of that)._

 _But John had given him a reason to really live for. A belief that there was someone who really did care for him. Who told him to eat, drink, sleep. Who tended his wounds. Fussed like a mother hen._

 _John. John. John._

 _John would run his fingers through his hair, soothing him. He would chase away the nightmares. He would never tell it to John, but he did enjoy the occasional pat on the shoulder, the occasional hug. There was something about John's touch that made him feel alright._

 _Maybe that was why he had become a doctor. He must be good at calming down patients. Perhaps it had something to do with him being a soldier. Calm and controlled. Brave, brave soldier, John Watson. Serving the country, saving lives._

 _So unlike Sherlock. Sherlock with his drug habits, his nasty comments, his emotions locked away. Sherlock who was Afraid of his emotions._

 _Look at me John. I'm afraid._

 _Emotions. The grit on the lens. The fly in the ointment._

 _It's okay. It'll be okay. As long as John was there. Only if John was there._

 _"Jhn"_

 _Speaking was a mistake. The simple word uttered made his dry throat clench up, triggering a series of coughs._

 _Couldn't breathe. Breathing wasn't boring. He had to breathe. He had to sit up. But the coughs sent agony rushing through every bone, muscle and nerve in his transport. He couldn't find the strength to turn, let alone sit up._

 _Suddenly he could breathe. It wasn't a full breaths, rather short gasps. But he couldn't help it. He knew he should calm down. He was close to hyperventilating._

 _"Slow, Sherlock. In. Out. Slowly. With me, mate. Come on now. Slow down."_

 _Slowly Sherlock calmed his breaths, copying John's. John? When did he come here?_

 _He asked as much. Or at least tried to._

 _"Jhn" was as far as he got before another fit of coughs overtook him._

 _A hand rubbed his back, propping him up and soothing the coughs a little._

 _Murmured words were directed at him. He couldn't hear above the buzzing in his ears._

 _A hand descended on his forehead._

 _Cool ... and yet warm at the same time. The hand (John's, Sherlock's mind supplied) smoothed back his sweat drenched hair back._

 _"Sherlock. Open your eyes for me. Come on. Just for a few minutes."_

 _For John. Of course._

 _He opened his eyes into slits, wincing as the hammer increased it's vigorous pounding at his head._

 _A brownish, blondish blob with grey green eyes floated above him._

 _"Good. Sherlock, look at me. Focus. That's good. Now have you taken anything?"_

 _No. No, he had given up drugs. Given it up for John._

 _"Nnoo. No drugs. I promised."_

 _His desperation made his voice clearer._

 _"No. Sherlock, that's not what I meant. I know you didn't take drugs. I meant paracetamol or something. To reduce the fever."_

 _"Can't. Hurrs, Jhn."_

 _"Ssshhh. I know. I'm going to fetch some tablets, okay? I'm assuming you didn't have anything to drink either. I'll be right back, alright?"_

 _"M'm, 'k"_

 _John had left to get medicine and water. Or maybe juice. Loyal John. Always helping him. Taking care of him. Yes, John would take care of him. He could sleep now. At least until John came back with the medicine. Then he would take it and maybe ..._

 _He was asleep between one breath and the next._

 _Why was it taking John so long to fetch the tablets?_

 _"John, where are you?"_

 _He looked surprised to hear his voice ringing strong and clear. Hmm, strange._

 _John had his bag packed. Sherlock felt his heart pound harder._

 _"I'm going away Sherlock. I can't believe I stuck with you for so long. You are a freak."_

 _Freak. He couldn't believe that John called him that. It had to be a dream. A nightmare._

 _A nightmare with no escape._

 _"No. Please, John. Don't leave. I'll be better. I promise."_

 _Nightmare-John just laughed. A cold cruel laugh, unlike the soft, warm laugh of the real John. His John. His blogger and best friend._

 _Friend? Colleague._

 _No. John did not mean that. He couldn't have._

 _Without John he would fall. Drown. Suffocate. Burn._

 _I'll burn you. Ill burn the HEART out of you._

 _Burn. Heart._

 _Burn. John._

 _"JOHN."_

 _"Hey, hey, hey. It's okay. It's okay. I'm here, Sherlock. You're dreaming. I'm right here. Open your eyes."_

 _John. He was here. He hadn't left. He didn't call him a ..._

 _"John. 'm no' a frea'. 'm sorry. I be goo'. Frien'. Yo' my frien'."_

 _"Of course, you're not a freak. You are a good man. You have the most biggest heart. And you are and always will be my best friend."_

 _Glassy eyes met clear ones. The firm words of John releasing Sherlock from the nightmare._

 _"Promise? Promise you won' leave?"_

 _"Of course, you git. I promise. I made that promise a long time ago. After all what would you do without me?"_

 _"M'm. Los' withou' my blogger."_

 _"Right. Now swallow these pills. Try should help with the fever."_

 _A hand was under his head, raising it. Two pills were placed in his mouth and he felt cool glass against his lips._

 _A sip. Then two. A gulp. Within seconds he was gulping down the tall glass of water as fast as he could. He couldn't get enough._

 _The glass was withdrawn from his lips. He whimpered._

 _"Slowly, Sherlock. Slow sips. Don't want to bring it all up, do we?"_

 _The glass returned. And Sherlock sipped a little more slowly._

 _John gently lowered him back onto the couch._

 _A fluffy warm blanket was draped over him and he sighed, relishing in the warmth._

 _A chair leg scraped the floor._

 _"Sleep, Sherlock. I'll be here."_

 _Sherlock drifted to sleep, turning his head slightly towards the hand carding through his hair._

 _A/N: Hope you enjoyed. Please read and review. And I'll update if I get any interest or I may just end it here. It's in your hands, people, people, people._

 _Ta,_

 _L.S._


	2. Chapter 2

Hi guys. I am so sorry that it took so long to update. I had exams and things. This is a short chapter, kinda like a filler but rest assured that I'll update soon.

Please read and review.

On to the story...

Time was strange.

Sometimes Sherlock woke up to find John wiping his fevered face with a cool cloth, stroking his sweat soaked hair. Other times he found John reading aloud their various escapades from his blog, his voice soothing him back to sleep.

Although he seemed to be sleeping forever, the light behind the curtains never changed much, bringing Sherlock to the conclusion that it couldn't have been more than a few hours since John had arrived from the surgery.

Pondering exactly why John had come back from his surgery so soon when he usually arrived only in the evenings, taxed too much of his strength and he found himself drifting off to sleep again.

He could feel himself drifting back to consciousness again. But this time there was something different. John wasn't near him.

Somehow he was so used to John's presence that his absence induced a wave of fear.

No. He wouldn't be afraid. He was a grown man and perfectly capable of being alone in the dark. (Dark? He must have slept nearly the whole day, then.)

He closed his eyes in an effort to sleep again.

To escape the darkness. The smothering blanket of black that kept weak men in its clutches, torturing, burning ...

Shadows rose from the dark corners.

Enemies he'd condemned reached out with bloody, mangled hands.

Screams and pleas of people he had failed to save resounded all around him, piercing into his very heart, making him want to claw at his ears, strangled screams making their way out of his throat.

"No ... no ... Please. Don't. Make it stop. Please. Ple ..."

He couldn't stop the gasping whimpers and pained moans from escaping.

Weak. Pathetic.

Hands reaching to grab him. He struggled and kicked and screamed, trying to escape the intruding hands.

He screamed again. Screamed for John.

John who was already there, trying to soothe him, whispering comforts that sounded right only when uttered by John.

Sherlock fell sobbing into John's arms, clutching at the silly jumper that John wore, the warmth seeping through his limbs and chasing away the coldness of the dark dreams.

"Ssshhh. It's okay, Sherlock. I'm here. Nothing's gonna hurt you. It's alright. It was just a nightmare."

"They'll get me, John. They always do." Sherlock managed between his sons, clutching harder at John, never wanting to let go of him. His rock.

"Who's they, Sherlock?"

"The Dead. The ... They died because of me, John. I ... I tried to save them. But I couldn't."

This brought out a fresh wave of tears and Sherlock felt John rubbing his back and the back of his neck.

"Sherlock. First of all, none of that is your fault. You did the best you could and that's all anyone could do. You tried to save them, to help them, when no one else did. That makes you a good man, no matter what others think."

"Don't leave?"

"Of course not."

This time when Sherlock slept, it was only when he was curled near John's hip as the latter sat on the couch, Sherlock's head in his lap.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sherlock, wake up."

John. It was John's voice. Telling him to wake up.

Opening his eyes took more effort than it should. And when he did it sent a spike of pain shooting through his head.

He felt a hand on his forehead gently pressing here and then there. Slowly the pain eased until it became bearable.

He sighed in relief.

"Sherlock can you open your mouth? I have to take your temperature".

"Mmm" he hummed, too tired to muster a decent reply.

A thermometer slipped between his lips and he felt himself drifting back to sleep.

"Jesus Christ. Sherlock ... It's 40.2 degree celcius. You've got to go to a hospital".

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he sat up or tried to.

"No. No, John. No hosp..." He lapsed into dry, hacking coughs.

John sighed, rubbing a hand across Sherlock's back in an effort to calm his coughs.

"Fine. We'll take care of it here. But if it doesn't come down, then you are going to a hospital".

Sherlock didn't reply, just collapsed back onto the couch, breathing deeply.

John went to the kitchen to retrieve a cool cloth and a basin in case Sherlock decided to throw up.

He was wondering whether to take the cough syrup too when his musings were interrupted by a thud.

Being a soldier he knew only too well the sound of a body hitting the floor. Before one breath and the next he was rushing back to the living room.

Sherlock was there. But not in any position John wished to find him.

He was on the floor convulsing horribly. He had apparently fallen out of the couch and was now face down on the floor, his head jerking repeatedly and his gangley limbs going every which way, striking everything in their vicinity.

John practically flew to Sherlock's side and throwing the cloth and the basin onto the couch, turned him as best as he could so that he was lying on his back.

Quickly pushing the coffee table away as far as he could, he cushioned Sherlock's head with a pillow from the couch.

"Come on, you git. Wake up." Checking his watch he found that it was nearly a minute since Sherlock started convulsing.

Just as he was about to call an ambulance or some such desperate measures, Sherlock's twitching slowed and stopped altogether.

Maneuvering him onto his side, John waited with bated breath. Sure enough, Sherlock retched and brought up whatever meager food had been in his system.

"It's alright. Bring it all up. You're fine. That's it." John murmured soothingly, not knowing if Sherlock was even conscious enough to hear him.

"Sherlock. Can you hear me?"

A moan.

A slight flutter of eyelids.

"J ... John ... Wha ...?"

"It's okay. You had a seizure. You're alright now, okay? Focus on me, Sherlock. Keep your eyes on me."

"Tired ... Jo." "Ssshhh. I know but you've got to get to bed. You can sleep in your bed. Come on, up you get."

Hoisting the lanky, underweight detective turned out to be far more difficult than it looked.

John wasn't even sure if Sherlock was awake, but he somehow managed to half carry, half drag the limp detective to his bedroom.

Gently he deposited the sick man onto the bed. Stripping him of his clothes except his underwear, he covered him with a thin blanket. Going back to the living room, he fetched the wet cloth and the basin.

Finally he dragged his armchair into Sherlock's bedroom and sat down with his laptop.

Then pausing, he changed his mind and quickly dialed Mycroft.

"Mycroft, I need your help."

* * *

Ten minutes later, John was fixing up an IV on Sherlock's too pale hand. Looking around, he gathered the numerous medical supplies Mycroft's men had brought and arranged them in a way that was easily accessible to him.

Sighing, he took his seat in the armchair and inched closer to his sleeping friend. Laying a hand on his forehead, he was happy to see that the temperature had not increased.

Smoothing the sweaty hair from Sherlock's forehead, John was suddenly struck by how vulnerable the detective really looked.

All the time the doctor had known him, he had experienced only a rare few times when the detective would let his cold mask down. And he did it only in the presence of John. John was honored to have earned that trust and he yearned to see more of the warm Sherlock.

But it was in times of illness and injuries that the doctor preferred the 'Sherlock-ish' Sherlock. He hated seeing the great Sherlock Holmes laid low and writhe in pain.

And so John vowed to protect and care for Sherlock and his 'transport' even if Sherlock himself didn't care for such things. He vowed to never leave the idiot alone even if he insulted and angered John. He had made that promise when he first shot that cabbie. And he didn't mean to ever let go of that.

* * *

 _Third chapter guys. This is getting slightly out of hand and I have no idea how to end this. But fear not. I will finish this story if it is the last thing I do._

 _I will be writing short but quick chapters, so sorry for the upcoming short chapters_

 _I sincerely thank my reviewers and the people who favorited, followed this story. And all the people who've read this._

 _I would also like to hear your opinions and share whatever ideas you have and what you would like to see in this story._

 _Hope you like it. And don't forget to read and review._

 _Ta,_

 _Laila._


	4. Chapter 4

First things first.

As far as John knew, Sherlock had been ill nearly the whole day. He hadn't answered when John had told that he was leaving for surgery. But since this happened on an usual basis, John had not minded.

He should have known that something was wrong when he saw that Sherlock was sleeping. But he had been in a hurry to get to the surgery and had paid it no mind.

So when he came home in the afternoon during a break from his shift and found Sherlock coughing his lungs out, he had nearly had a heart attack. But the doctor in him had taken over and he had done all that was necessary to ensure that his friend was comfortable.

But the question remained. How had the great Sherlock Holmes gotten ill?

John rubbed his eyes and stared over the laptop at Sherlock's sleeping figure.

High fever, seizures, cough, headache, vomiting, hallucinations or nightmares and now chills.

He got up to adjust the blanket over Sherlock's shivering form. Gently laying his palm on his forehead, he was pleased to see that the fever had come down slightly. He would need to check with the thermometer to make sure, but for now John let Sherlock sleep.

It was almost certainly the flu. But knowing Sherlock it could be anywhere between a mild attack of flu to full fledged pneumonia. God, he hoped it wasn't the latter.

Checking on Sherlock once again, John got up and made his way to the kitchen in the hopes of finding something edible and to brew two cups of tea.

* * *

 _Where was he?_

 _Dark. Cold._

 _John?_

 _Eyes ... closed. Of course. Stupid. Have to open eyes._

The whole room was spinning when Sherlock opened his eyes. It made him sick. He wanted to go back to sleep ... but couldn't.

 _Something was missing. Something important. Cold. So cold._

 _Something warm. Like John. John!_

He sat up rapidly. There was something pulling at his hand.

 _IV. Why was he wearing an IV? No matter._

Seconds later a very wobbly, very ill Sherlock stumbled to the door, the IV line lying ignored on the bed.

 _Use your senses. Come on. You're supposed to be clever._

 _Sight : Grey tunneling vision. Not good._

 _Smell : Couldn't even draw in enough oxygen. Not good._

 _Hearing : Pounding of his heart and his rasping breaths. Not good._

 _Taste : Unpleasant. Coppery. Going to be sick. Sicksicksick. Not good._

 _Touch : Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold. Not good._

 _Result : Bit not good._

 _Was he sick? No. Yes. Don't know._

 _Needed doctor. Needed John._

Sherlock had his mouth open now, trying to draw in oxygen. Everything was spinning. He was shivering and sweating.

He listed alarmingly to the left, but righted himself before he could fall down.

His vision was blurring. He needed to sit down.

 _No. Need John. John will help._

 _Left foot. Right foot. Left. Right. Left ... Ri..._

 _Gravity doesn't work,_ Sherlock mused, as the floor sailed up to greet his face.

 _Red carpet. Who carpets the floor? John?_

 _No. No time. Solving, blogging, doctoring. No time for John. Busy._

 _Good John. Sweet. Helping._

 _Oh, Warm. Warmth around his chest and around his right upper arm._

 _Laying down? When did he ... of course, the floor. The floor came up..._

 _Or did he go down?_

 _Warmth ... gone. No. Cold. Again. Hate the cold. Didn't want to be cold._

 _Wanted warm. Wanted John._

 _Warmth against cheek and forehead._

 _John's soap. John's jumper. John's warmth. John. John was here._

"She ... up ... op ... eyes...me... Sher ... Sherlock! Open your eyes. Come on, you idiot."

 _Idiot? But he was clever. Not idiot._

 _But John said ... Oh. John. Then it was probably true._

"Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

"What the hell were you thinking? Your fever probably increased after your foolish walk."

"Cold. John ... you. Warm. So ... so cold. John." Sherlock stuttered.

John sighed. "Sshh, I know. But that's just the fever talking. We have to get you cooled down, alright?"

Sherlock answered with a slight sigh.

With a slight grunt, John hoisted Sherlock to his feet with one arm around his waist and the other clasping Sherlock's hand around his shoulder.

Like a pair of drunks they hobbled towards the bathroom.

Once there John gently deposited Sherlock on the toilet seat and hurried to fill in the tub with lukewarm water.

"Sherlock, can you remove your clothes?"

Blearily Sherlock opened his eyes. "Tired" he moaned.

"I know. You can rest after having a bath, alright? How's that sound? Hmm?"

When there was no response from the detective, the doctor took it upon himself to get Sherlock ready for the bath. Strangely John was not too embarrassed in the view of undressing his best friend. Maybe it was because he was preoccupied in trying to coax the swaying detective to stay still long enough to remove his shirt and trousers.

Finally Sherlock was shivering in his all too pale skin, naked except for his underwear.

John tested the temperature of the water and found it just right.

"Come on, Sherlock. In you get. That's it ... good, good."John managed to get Sherlock into the tub.

"J...Jo..John. C...Cold." Sherlock managed, teeth chattering.

"It's not. It's lukewarm. You'll get used to it."

Sherlock's eyes closed.

"No, no. Sherlock, stay awake. No sleeping yet." John urged, tapping Sherlock's cheek gently.

"Mmm. Not ... sleep"

"Good. That's good."

After a few moments, John asked Sherlock the question that was bothering him.

"Sherlock. How did you become ill? I mean, you don't really get sick normally."

Sherlock's eyes opened into slits and a ghost of a smile drifted onto his lips.

"The client had a cold."

 _Of course, a client. And a cold always turns into flu if you are Sherlock bloody Holmes,_ John mused. He despaired. Especially when it came to Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Long after a slightly cooler Sherlock had drifted off to sleep on the bed, John sat again near his bed with a cup of tea.

He would have gone to his own bed if not for Sherlock's whispered 'stay'.

After all when had he ever been able to ignore Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective?

* * *

 _So sorry for the late update. Had to go out of town for a couple of weeks. Future updates will be faster._

 _So enjoy._

 _As always thank you for all those who f,f,r,r ed and reviews and opinions welcome._

 _Ta,_

 _Laila._


	5. Chapter 5

"... flu ... sleep ... case ... week"

"Never ... get ... healthy"

"I'm surpr ... but still I've ..."

"I think he's ... up"

"Sher ... can ... hear me? Open your ..."

Slices of conversation drifted into his consciousness, none of the words making much sense.

But there was a hand on is forehead now. _Someone ... John? ... telling him to ... telling him to what?_

Slowly and painstakingly he opened his heavy eyelids.

The blurry shapes of John and ... Lestrade? ... came into view.

"Sherlock can you hear me?". _John's voice._

"J'hn?", Sherlock mumbled.

"Yeah. You with me?", came the question. At Sherlock's slight nod, John continued,"Greg's here. You want to talk to him?"

"Who's ... Greg?", Sherlock asked, confused.

"You know, if I didn't already know that he deleted your name, I would have thought that he was suffering from temporary amnesia", John whispered, with an amused smile, to an annoyed Lestrade.

Then turning to Sherlock, he added,"It's Greg Lestrade, you git."

"Oh", came the tired reply. With a wince, the detective tried to sit up. John hurried to help him with a gentle hand on his back.

Moments later a slightly trembling, sweaty Sherlock sat comfortably leaning on a pillow. He could feel John's concerned gaze on him but chose to ignore him in favor of looking at the DI who was now seated on the armchair.

"So ... You've got a case", he asked hoarsely.

"Even if he did you won't be running around solving it. I am not letting you leave the flat for at least another week", said John, directing a commanding glare at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at him incredulously.

"What?! What am I going to do shut up in the flat?"

"Um ... I don't know. Resting? Ever heard of that?"

"Why should I rest? I am perfectly fine."

"Perfectly fine, my foot. You have the flu, Sherlock. Your temperature has not gone below 39 and you are shaking where you are sitting. You are not fine."

"Fine. I'll solve it from the flat then. Gavin, give me the files. And go and bring me some tea."

"It's Greg. And I am not making you tea."

"Why not? I'm ill. I'm apparently", here he looked pointedly at John,"'shaking where I'm sitting'. I have to keep up my strength. John, go and get my laptop. Lestrade, why are you still here? Where is that tea I asked?". Apparently done with them, Sherlock now opened the case files and started poring over them.

John and Greg exchanged miserable glances.

"What have we got ourselves into?"

"Sherlock Holmes. That's what we've gotten ourselves into."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, all the adrenaline seemed to have left Sherlock. John and Lestrade were in the sitting room ("Get out. I'm trying to think"). Sherlock seriously regretted chasing them out, now.

Not because he felt guilty for being rude or anything. But because his bladder was making urgent requests.

 _What was happening to him? Since when did he require help to use the loo?_

With a groan of disgust, he slowly lowered his legs to the side of the bed. Without the pillows to support him, Sherlock swayed dangerously and would have fallen backwards. Luckily he managed to get hold of the headboard and straightened up again. Clinging to the bed with all his strength he slowly rose up onto his feet. The floor spun unpleasantly and he had to blink a few times to make it stay in one place. Inch by inch he made it to the bathroom door, stopping every few centimeters. By the time he reached there his stomach was rebelling quite horribly and he barely managed to make it to the toilet before being violently sick and expelling the half a cup of tea he had managed to drink.

Footsteps got louder as someone came running to the bathroom.

 _One ... no, two pairs of footsteps. Both John and Lestrade. Dear God, John was going to fuss and Lestrade ... he'll never hear the end of it. He just wanted ..._

Sherlock retched again, bringing up nothing but bile. Hands were rubbing his back but all Sherlock could focus on was the searing pain in his abdomen ... or was it his stomach? ... and his throat. He gave a pain filled whimper.

"Ssshhh. It's okay. It's alright, Sherlock." John soothed gently."Greg, could you get me a cold flannel?", he inquired the Inspector who was hovering uncertainly in the bathroom entrance.

Lestrade hurried to get just that, thankful to help.

John turned back to the detective who had now squeezed his eyes shut.

"John ... need to ... go, use the ... toilet", he forced out in between gasps.

"Wha ... Oh, right. Right. I'll ... Come on, then. Up you get", John hoisted Sherlock to his feet, the detective wavering for a moment before steadying himself by clutching at the wall.

John turned away to give his friend some privacy, until the toilet flushed.

At the same moment, Greg returned with the flannel. Sherlock had sat down on the toilet seat, shivering and leant back with his eyes closed.

"Sherlock! You OK, mate?", Greg asked worriedly.

Sherlock didn't seem to hear him. Greg glanced worriedly at John. John shrugged but nodded somewhat reassuringly, all the same.

Gently he wiped Sherlock's sweaty face with the flannel.

"John!?", Sherlock moaned at the contact, still not opening his eyes.

"Ssshh. Nearly over", John gestured to Greg to help him get Sherlock to the bedroom.

Together the two managed to drag Sherlock to the bed. Sherlock was asleep the moment he hit the bed. John and Greg covered him with a blanket and fluffed up his pillows. Basically, they saw to it that he was comfortable and at the same time took care not to cover him with too many blankets.

Leaving the door to his bedroom slightly ajar, they walked quietly to the living room.

"I have to leave.", Greg said, rubbing the back of his neck,"but I'll visit ... tomorrow or ... just, if you need me. Call me if you ... you know, need any help. Even if it's midnight. God knows I'm used to that."

John chuckled quietly. "I will", he said, walking Greg to the door.

Lestrade paused at the doorway.

"Take care of him. You know how he is. Never accepts help."

"I know. And yeah, I'll take care of him. That's what we're here for, isn't it? That's what friends are for."

They smiled at each other, both simultaneously glancing towards Sherlock's bedroom.

* * *

 _Hi Guys, sorry for the wait. And please don't hate me, but there will be no updates for this story or my other one (Grown up children) until next week.[Ugh...family occasions. People and going out and ... well, you get the general gist]._

 _Thank you to all the people who r,r,f,f ed my story. Ideas and opinions always welcome._

 _Hope you enjoyed. See you in another week._

 _Ta,_

 _Laila._


	6. Chapter 6

It took several cold flannels, a couple more paracetamols and the gentle caring of John, before Sherlock's fever was reduced considerably.

38.2, read the thermometer. Sighing in relief, John switched it off and placed it on the bedside table. Directing his glance towards the sleeping detective, he placed a palm on his forehead, smoothing aside the sweat soaked curls.

"You stupid git. You scared me half to death. Never do that to me again, Sherlock Holmes. Never", he whispered, smiling slightly. There was no response, except a slight twitch, from Sherlock.

Feeling suddenly a hundred times tired, John laid his head on the bed and resting a hand on Sherlock's chest, drifted off to sleep in under a minute.

* * *

 _Sticky._

That was the first sensation that hit him.

 _Ugh, he needed a shower. Why was he so sweaty?_

There was a sound like a steamroller or maybe a train rumbling, close by.

Opening his eyes was far easier than it had been for the past few hours ... or had it been days?

 _Oh. So it wasn't a steamroller or a train._

Sherlock smirked at the sight of John sleeping half on his bed and half in his chair. And snoring quite loudly too.

His smirk slowly died off as he took in the sight of his friend. Slight stubble. So he had been ill for at least for a day, give or take a few hours. Dark bags under his eyes. Probably hadn't slept for 24 hours. Even in his sleep, a slight furrow was present on the doctor's brow.

Frowning in confusion, Sherlock wondered why John hadn't slept and why he took care of him at all. _Sentiment,_ a John like voice echoed in his head.

Yes, Sentiment. Smiling he spread his blanket so that it covered both him and the doctor.

When he drifted off to sleep again, his hand lay entwined with John's.

* * *

It was nearing 6 'o' clock in the evening, so nearly a day and a half since Sherlock became ill, when John woke up.

Sherlock was still dead to the world and the flat was too quiet. He was longing for Sherlock to become well soon. He would never admit it but he missed the detective's mindless ramblings and occasional explosions and crashes that adorned the flat.

He got up yawning and stretching, wincing when his neck gave a violent protest due to his abusive sleeping position.

A smile crept onto his face when half of a blanket fell off his shoulder. _For a detective who gave off the very aura of dickishness, Sherlock could be caring indeed,_ he thought to himself.

Wrapping the blanket more snugly around the detective, he was about to leave, when a slurred voice from the bed stopped him.

"J'hn", followed by a huge yawn.

"Hey. How are you feeling?", John asked a half awake Sherlock, going back to sit on the bed.

"A whole lot better. But I think I will have a shower. I am sticky", he replied, wrinkling his nose.

John nodded and after asking Sherlock if he wanted some tea ("Yes. Yes. Yes."), left the room.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, a much cleaner detective and a much refreshed doctor sat side by side on the couch, steaming cups of tea in their grasps.

 _"... a martini. Shaken, not stirred."_

And yes, watching Bond. Which also remained one of the few movies that both of them could bear to watch, without either of them complaining.

"John?"

"Mmmm?"

"I ... well, as you ... um, took care... of the fever and helped me ... gain my strength, I am glad ... that you ...um..."

"You're welcome, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked in surprise towards a smiling John, then blushing slightly turned away with a slight nod.

"Right."

"Right."

* * *

"... Married unhappily, judging by the imprint where she used to wear a ring. Affairs with a strangers. Husband found out and hit her in a fit of anger. She hit her head on the edge of that glass table. So he shot her on the same wound and placed the gun with her fingerprints on it to give the impression of a suicide. He left in a hurry. You'll find him on the way to Miami. Flight details on his tickets which he also forgot on the table. He panicked. Now, we will be on our way. And please do find me an interesting case and not dull ones next time, Lestrade. Good morning."

With a swish of his coat, Sherlock turned on his heel and made his way out of the house. John followed after a hurried goodbye to the Detective Inspector.

This was the first day John had let Sherlock out of the flat after his impromptu meet up with the flu, four days prior. And Sherlock was making the most of it.

"So, you holding up alright?"

"I am perfectly fine John."

"Yeah, right. Of course. You are Sherlock Holmes after all."

Sherlock smirked at John who just rolled his eyes. With a wave of his hand he hailed a cab and got in, quickly followed by his blogger.

"So. Dinner?"

"Starving."

Some things never changed. After all, they still had each other.

 _The End._

* * *

 _Last chapter guys. The end. Hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing it. Prompts, ideas, opinions are always welcome. Thankyou to all those who read, reviewed, faved and followed. You made my day._

If you have any prompts, please PM me.

Hope to write again soon.

Ta,

Laila.


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